The Man Who Was Saturday. Derek Lambert
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and assorted chinaware were on high ground out of harm’s way, a bed was doubling up as a couch. Guests crowded the small arena expansively.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
Her English was almost perfect. Although he spoke near-perfect Russian he answered her in English. ‘Are you sure you’ve got enough?’
The table at the end of the room was a distillery. A dozen different vodkas, Stolichnaya, Starka, Russkaya, Yubileinaya, lemon, pepper, hunter’s – Kreiber’s tipple, Calder remembered – caraway, the liquid gunpowder known as animal killer, and a few bottles of moonshine. The firewaters took pride of place. Among the other ranks were Georgian wines and Armenian brandies, Zhigulovsky beer, mineral waters, Limonad and the Soviet Coke, Sayani.
She smiled back at him, the smile at the funeral. ‘I think we can manage.’
‘Vodka then. Yubileinaya.’
‘You’re a connoisseur.’ She poured him a shot of vodka and a glass of mineral water and pointed at the zakuski. ‘You have to eat or the vodka burns holes in your stomach.’
Calder inspected the snacks. Glistening mounds of black, golden and red caviar, slices of smoked salmon, pickled mushrooms, gherkins, blinis, salamis and salads tossed with sour cream, brown and black bread.
He selected a couple of gherkins, tossed back the vodka, drank some mineral water and snapped his teeth into a gherkin.
‘You’ve done that before,’ she said.
‘Many times.’
‘We have a saying that drinking is the joy of Russia.’ She drank some white wine.
‘Then everyone must be very happy.’
‘It’s also a problem,’ she said. ‘Crime, absenteeism, divorce – drinking is usually the culprit. Even children in the kindergartens have been found drinking alcohol.’ She poured him another shot of vodka.
Calder noticed a stocky man, black hair needled with grey, pushing his way through the throng towards them. He skirted a poet tearfully reciting, stepped over two guests arm-wrestling on the floor and stopped beside Katerina. He carried himself like a soldier.
Katerina introduced him as her step-father. He clasped Calder’s hand and crushed it. ‘My name’s Alexander,’ he announced in Russian. ‘Sasha to you. My home is your home and now you must drink or else I shall be offended.’ He laughed hugely. ‘And now a toast. Silence!’ He waited until the only sound was the sobbing of the poet. Raising his glass he proposed a toast: ‘To Anglo-Soviet friendship and our guest from the United States.’
For a frozen moment everyone stared at Calder. He sensed no hostility in the concentrated gaze. But what was all this about? He had left America five years ago.
The stares dissolved, heads tilted. There was some scattered applause.
Sasha tapped his throat with one finger. ‘Pah, it is good to drink is it not, Gaspadeen Calder?’ He refilled their glasses with Yubileinaya. ‘Where do you live in America? I have only been to New York. With the choir, you understand.’
‘Sasha was in the Red Army Choir,’ Katerina explained and, turning her back to her step-father for a moment, whispered: ‘I didn’t tell them who you are.’
‘Boston,’ Calder said.
‘Ah. I pahked my cah in Hahvahd Yahd. How is that?’
‘Spoken like a true Bostonian,’ Calder said in Russian. The vodka was beginning to reach his socks. He smeared caviar on a finger of toast and ate it.
‘Sadly I had to return from New York before I could visit anywhere else. There was, ah, a little trouble ….’ Sasha winked theatrically. ‘But my voice stayed with me. Later I will sing to you.’
Katerina said: ‘The kitchen first. Have you forgotten what day it is?’
‘Ah, the most terrible day of the year. But if we don’t play their little game, Gaspadeen Calder, then we shall be denied our creature comforts for the other 364 days of the year.’ He winked again, with the other eye this time. ‘Isn’t that right, dochka?’ He pinched Katerina’s cheek and thrust his way back to the kitchen.
Katerina sighed. ‘Another male chauvinist.’
Beside them the arm-wrestlers, hands locked, veins bulging from their necks, grunted. In another corner a young man with long pale hair began to strum a guitar.
‘So I’m just visiting, huh?’
‘I couldn’t say you were a defector. My step-father wouldn’t have let you in. And not a single person in this room would have raised his glass to you.’
‘And you?’
Katerina sipped her wine. ‘You won’t find anyone in Russia who has much time for someone who ….’
‘Betrayed their country?’
She shrugged. ‘Deserted.’
‘Then why did you invite me here?’ He held up one hand. ‘Don’t tell me – you felt sorry for me.’
‘Because you worry me. You know, you left the West because you were disillusioned. That was the reason, wasn’t it? And now you seem to be disillusioned with the Soviet Union. I thought I’d show you what life here can be like.’
Calder gestured with his empty glass around the room. ‘Your friends certainly know how to enjoy themselves.’ It was the first time he had been inside a home like this; all the other invitations had been arranged – safe, tame, dull Communists. ‘It’s a bash.’
‘Would you find people enjoying themselves like this in Boston?’
Here we go, he thought, the equation. There was no escape from it. He said: ‘Sure you would.’ In his shared apartment near Fenway Park in his long-ago student days, for instance.
The arm of one of the wrestlers almost touched the floor, then sprang back again. The poet, to whom no one was listening, petulantly threw his glass against the wall.
A small woman with dimples and bright brown eyes said: ‘Is this the gentleman you were telling me about, Kata?’
Katerina introduced her mother.
Her mother said: ‘His glass is empty, Kata. Fill it with the demon. And don’t forget to eat, Gaspadeen Calder. We have a saying in the Soviet Union. Food on an empty stomach makes a full grave.’
Calder had long decided that Russians made up their sayings on the spur of the moment. ‘A wise proverb,’ he said graciously as she handed him cucumber salad and sour cream on a side-plate.
‘And what are you doing in Moscow, Gaspadeen Calder?’
Hurriedly, Katerina said: ‘He’s a writer. He’s writing an article for an American magazine.’
‘The National Geographic,’ Calder said, looking Katerina straight in the eye.
‘And how do you like our city?’ her mother asked. ‘Beautiful, no?’
‘Noble,’ Calder said. ‘Especially the Kremlin and the metro stations. They put ours to shame.’
Creases of pleasure appeared at the corners of her mouth. ‘We are very clean people, we Russians. Orderly and exuberant. Nothing by halves. And we look after our old people,’ she added.
Why don’t Intourist and Novosti introduce foreigners to people like this? Calder wondered. Instead visitors were forced to listen to actors reciting tired scripts, and taken to brochure showplaces instead of wooden villages clustered round a pump, to escape the dreaded condemnation: ‘Primitive.’
Not that the West managed much of a PR job: most Russians still thought London was a nineteenth-century stew.
Katerina’s mother said: ‘Soon